


Her Cross

by Hello_Spikey



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-30 01:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17818946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: For the memento prompt: Buffy's Cross from Angel.





	Her Cross

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Superbowl Sunday! Go Packers!
> 
> Also, while we're at it - Go Spuffy!

He stares at her cross. She doesn’t wear it that often, these days. Having been dead and back – not big with either needing the protection nor the religious connotations, but sometimes it just goes with the outfit, and Buffy’s not so far gone that she doesn’t accessorize.

But when she wears it, Spike gives her these sidelong looks that are hard to read. And usually Spike-looks come in double bold typeface visible from across the street. You can see what he’s feeling, what he’s trying not to feel, what he thinks about that, and what he’s going to feel next.

Angel was the exact opposite. He had only one emotion or thought at a time – at least as far as Buffy could tell – and more often than not, it was the context of the situation that defined those emotions clearly to her, rather than anything on his face.

Funny that the one soulled vampire in the world path-of-redemption guy was less complex. Being the one chosen blah blah blah pretty much complexed Buffy up. Once upon a time, all she’d cared about was fashion and popularity.

Buffy realizes she’s wool-gathering, and fingering the cross, while Spike’s expression has gone from unreadable to “I see you see me staring and I’m afraid you’ll ask me why and I don’t want to tell you because something about that exposes too much of me”.

(Seriously. He could be a highway sign: Insecurity Next 500 Years) Buffy drops the cross and shifts her shoulders back. “Do you like it?” she asks.

She expects him to play it off casual, or use the excuse to compliment her. Instead he leans in and licks her chest, from the bottom point of her neckline right up and over the silver cross. There’s a quiet hiss, like water hitting a frying pan, as he passes over it, and then he’s nibbling her neck and her fingers are threading into his hair and she forgets what she was thinking about.

And he’s told her. Again, like he always tells her, every secret vulnerable thing in his heart, exposed and clear in the caress of his lips.


End file.
